afterwards kept up by the condensation of the thick, damp mists, the dew and cloud-like vapours, that even in the early mornings of the hot summer days so frequently cling about the downs. These more than supply the waste from evaporation, so that the basin may be called a dew-pond. The mists that hang about the ridges are often almost as laden with moisture as a rain-cloud itself. They deposit a thick layer of tiny bead-like drops upon the coat of the wayfarer, which seem to cling after the manner of oil. Though these hills have not the faintest pretensions to be compared with mountains, yet when the rainy clouds hang low they often strike the higher ridges, which from a distance appear blotted out entirely, and are then receiving a misty shower.

Then there rise up sometimes thick masses of vapour which during the night have gathered over the brooks and water-meadows, the marshy places of the vale, and now come borne on the breeze rolling along the slopes; and, as these pass over the dew-pond, doubtless its colder water condenses that portion which draws down into the depression where it stands. In winter the vapours clinging about the clumps of beech freeze to the boughs, forming, not a rime merely, like that seen in the vale, but a kind of ice-casing, while icicles also depend underneath. Now, if a wind comes sweeping across the hill with sudden blast, these glittering appendages rattle together loudly, and there falls a hail of jagged icy fragments. When one has seen the size and quantity of these, it becomes more easy to understand the amount of water which an intangible vapour may carry with it to be condensed into the pond or congealed upon the tree.

There is another such a pond half a mile or more from the earthwork in another direction, but also on a level, making two upon this high and exposed down. Many others are scattered about—they have become more numerous of late years. Several are situate on the lower plateau, which is also dry enough. Toiling over the endless hills in the summer heats, I have often been driven by necessity of thirst to taste a little of the water contained in them, though well knowing the inevitable result. The water has a dead flavour: it is not stagnant in the sense of impurity, but dead, even when quite clear. In a few moments after tasting it, the mouth dries, with a harsh unpleasant feeling as if some impalpable dusty particles had got into the substance of the tongue. This is caused probably by suspended chalk, of which it tastes; for assuaging thirst, therefore, it is worse than useless in summer: very different is the exquisitely limpid cool liquid which bubbles out in the narrow coombes far below.

The indirect bearing of the phenomena of these dew-ponds upon the water-supply of the ancient fort is found in the evidence they supply that under different conditions the deposit of moisture here might have been very much larger. The ice formed upon the branches of the beech trees in winter proves that water is often present in the atmosphere in large quantities; all it requires is something to precipitate it. Therefore, if these hills were once clothed with forest, as previously suggested, it appears possible that the primitive inhabitants, after all, may have carried on their agriculture with less difficulty, and have been able to store up water in their camps with greater ease, than would be the case at present. This may explain the traces of primeval cultivation to be seen here on the barest bleakest, and most unpromising hillsides. Such traces may be discovered at intervals all along the slope, on the summit, and near the foot of the down at the rear of the entrenchment.

It is easy to pass almost over them without observing the nearly obliterated marks—the faint lines left on the surface by the implements of men in the days when the first Caesar was yet a living memory. These marks are like some of the little used paths which traverse the hills: if you look along way in front you can see them tolerably distinctly, but under your feet they are invisible, the turf being only so slightly worn by wayfarers. So, to find the signs of ancient fields, look for them from a distance as you approach along the slope; then you will see squares and parallelograms dimly defined upon the sward by slightly raised and narrow banks, green with the grass that has grown over them for so many centuries.

They have the appearance sometimes of shallow terraces raised one above the other, rising with the slope of the down. This terrace formation is perhaps occasionally artificial; but in some cases, I think, the natural conformation of the ground has been taken advantage of, having seen terraces where not the faintest trace of cultivation was visible. It is not always easy either to distinguish between the genuine enclosures of ancient days and the trenches left after the decay of comparatively modern fir-plantations, which it is usual to surround with a low mound and ditch. Long after the fir trees have died out the green mound remains; but there are rules by which the two, with a little care, may be distinguished.

The ancient field, in the first place, is generally very much smaller; and there are usually three or four or more in close proximity, divided by the faint green ridges, sometimes roughly resembling in ground-plan the squares of a chess-board. The mound that once enclosed a fir-plantation is much higher, and would be noticed by the most casual observer. It encircles a wide area, often irregular in shape, oval or circular, and does not present the regular internal divisions of the other—which, indeed, would be unnecessary and out of place in a copse.

It has become the fashion of recent years to break up the sward of the downs, to pare off the turf and burn it, and scatter the ashes over the soil newly turned up by the plough; the idea being mainly to keep more sheep by the aid of turnips and green crops than could be grazed upon the grass. In places it answers—in many others not; after two or three crops the yield sometimes falls to next to nothing. There is a ploughed field here right upon the ridge of the down, close to the ancient earthwork, where in dry summers I have seen ripening oats barely a foot high, and barley equally short. With all the resources of modern agriculture, artificial manure, deeper ploughing, and more complete cleaning, such results do not seem altogether commensurate with the labour bestowed. Of course it is not always so, else the enterprise would be at once abandoned. But when I come to think of the ancient tillage in the terraces upon the barren slopes, I find it difficult to see how, with their rude implements, the men of those times could have procured any sustenance from their soil, unless I suppose the conditions different.

If there was forest all around, to condense the vapours rolling over and deposit a heavy dew or grateful rainfall, then they may have found the stubborn earth more fruitful. Trees and brakes, and thickets, too, would give shelter and protect the rising growth from the bitter winds; while when first tilled the soil itself would be rich from the decay of accumulated leaves, dead boughs, and vegetable matter. So that the terrace gardens may have yielded plentifully then, and were probably surrounded with stockades to protect them from the ravages of the beasts of the forest. Now the very site of the ancient town can scarcely be distinguished: the sheep graze, the lambs gambol gaily over it in the sunshine, and the shepherd dozes hard by on the slope while his dog watches the flock.

A long day of rain is often followed by a moderately fine evening—the clouds breaking up as the sun nears the horizon. It happened one summer evening, after just such a day of continuous showers, that I was in a meadow about two miles distant from the hills. The rain had ceased, and the sky was clear overhead of all but a thin film of cloud, through